OMO

By J.H.M. Okthos

A mysterious woman riding across Britain is the catalyst that causes tribes of wild cyclists to roam the countryside, gathering in numbers and momentum. Many give up their names and memories in search of revenge, transcendence, and the essence of the mysterious force that is causing it all. Journalists, detectives, and writers struggle to make s

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.H.M. Okthos
• Release date: Apr 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999656416

Book preview

Part 1

Craig glanced up from the handlebars, the blurring tire, the veins in his forearms enlarged with his pumping blood, up into the rapidly encroaching distance. A tiny landmark – not even that, simply a happenstance arrangement of geography, location, and the vagaries of town planning. A car sped past him to his right, the sound of it dry and gentle in the crisp air of a carefully-selected spring evening. He continued to glare at it, the gentle curve as the road on which he rode split into two – road and bike lane. A two-mile stretch of unfettered tarmac, a gentle incline of 1%, swinging gently to the right, then to the left. To its right, a small metal barrier, separating the world of cars and commutes, of travel for a purpose, of distance and motion as chore. To its left a few feet of overgrown grass that descended in a steep cliff to more overgrown land too uneven to build on, and exposing a London skyline in one of its more flattering angles to the bike riders and pedestrians who found themselves on this stretch.

He hunkered down into the drops, made his back as flat as possible, as sleek as possible, feeling his way through the air resistance like a swimmer, enjoying the natural elegance it forced upon his frame. His eyes flickered upon the phone, mounted on his handlebars, the slight pang of regret that he still relied upon this method, as it would no doubt impact upon his aerodynamics. Always the aerodynamics. Thousands spent in the fight against the invisible – to be invisible. He looked at the screen just long enough to see the second counter change from twelve to thirteen. It was recording.

Forty-four. That was his position in the leaderboards. The number appeared in his mind in giant, thick letters, as if it were a barricade, an impenetrable, mocking obstacle. Forty-four. Of the two-hundred or so riders who recorded their times across that two-mile stretch, uploading them to compare times, he was the forty-fourth quickest. He would have winced were not every emotion, every bodily impulse, being channelled through the rhythmic pumping of his legs.

He, Craig Millar, who despite being born of immigrants, Jamaican father and Greek mother, driver and seamstress, neither of whom could read, had excelled academically, and walked the hallowed halls of Oxford as one of its most deserving students. He who, being of caramel skin and council estate roots, could have succumbed to the many prejudices and disadvantages at any point. Craig Miller, who could have claimed disparity and society for excuses, seeking out the refuge of dependence and met his failings with cries of injustice, as so many of his peers, had instead diminished, and eventually surpassed the head start of the white, wealthy, and connected not to become one of them – but to become the better of them. Craig Miller, who received a salary of over three hundred thousand as Head of International Logistics, though even that paled against his stock portfolio, now worth almost a million pounds. The one who had spent his mid-teens on trial at Arsenal and West Ham, with talk that he could go to the top, had his father not convinced him to continue his studies. Whose wife was the most beautiful, and could not be looked at without envy, but who still received the flirtations of his female colleagues.

Craig Millar, forty-fourth fastest time. He was thirty-nine years old.

He had pondered this for so long they had ceased to become thoughts. His constant reflection had refined all of this to its barest essentials, like diamond cut to its most reflective shape, a sharp knife-edge which stabbed him with acres of efficient regret in a streamlined instant. He had made perfunctory attempts to excuse this away, to soften the cuts and strikes of its memory. They must have had tailwinds. The exposed nature of the bank would make that very plausible. Group rides – people are always faster on group rides, where the burden is shared and the freshest takes on the wind resistance for another. There were probably some pros that rode this stretch – it’s a great stretch. There’s always doping, too. Perhaps someone even used a moped, or motorbike, keeping it slow enough to make the time somewhat realistic – nothing like that would surprise me.

But the excuses could only be held up and examined for a split-second before they crumbled away. Had he been second, third – even in the top ten – they might have held more tangibility – but forty fourth... It didn’t matter anyway. Cheater, tailwind, pro – the slicing of his insides would not stop until he beat them. Just as he had done before, always.

He was close enough now. He shifted gears, gripped the drops tightly, pushed himself forwards out of the seat, and pedalled. The acceleration made his mind clear, the morose slowness of his negative thoughts unable to catch up, falling from him like dandelion leaves against the rush of air resistance. An ally, but only for now.

It would be an out-of-the-seat sprint at first – he had decided – then, when the road curved slightly he would hunker down and maintain pace, conserving just enough energy to sprint before the road curved left instead of right, and then maintaining the speed once again. Solitary hours envisioning his racing line, trying to anticipate the spots that might trip him up, seemed pointless now. He felt his mouth go dry, but felt no regret at leaving his water bottle (and cage) at home for the weight savings. Though he had sworn not to look at the speedometer of his phone, he glanced at it now. Thirty-one miles an hour – it needed to be better. The top rider had a thirty average. He stared at it angrily as he pumped his legs through emerging waves of resistant pain to bring it up to thirty-three, then turned his face up towards the road.

Craig pushed and pushed against the pedals as if pummelling them, as if stomping them with hatred and disgust, but no more than for himself, for at this moment he knew the bike was part of him. The bike was no horse that could be emotionally detached from and spurred on cruelly beyond even its own wishes with pain. It was no car, that would reach its limit and restrain its driver to it, no matter how much he thumped upon the steering wheel. The bike was merely an extension, a brush, a guitar, an object that responded in kind to its owner. It’s possibilities infinite, its limits the rider’s own.

His legs ached, his back yearned to curl back in repose, the air pushed against his shoulders and torso effortlessly and mocking. All of which did nothing to Craig but stoke the fire inside of him even more recklessly, to the point of madness, his mouth open with the wild abandon of a psychopath embracing destiny. He glared at the road descending beneath him as if destroyed, existence ceasing once his tires had consumed it.

The curve emerged in his field of view, mere metres ahead of him. Now was the moment at which he had planned to retreat to the seat, to comfort himself and maintain speed for the second sprint later. The speedometer read thirty-three. This was it. It could happen. All he needed to do was be smart, but at that moment, smartness seemed the most obscure concept in the world. He was too ravaged by his own rabidity, his body too accustomed now to its punishing existence. To retreat was to admit something, to calm was to conceive of a limitation. He could not. He had channelled into something greater than a rider, a hunger and chaos that was beyond those of people. He knew this feeling, he had felt it many times when he was younger, and it had always led him true, enabled him to achieve his unexpected feats. A sensation that had abandoned him in his later years of enjoying success.

He would not. He could not. He could only go faster. He would sprint the entire two miles. He would not merely take his place amongst those above him, he would transcend beyond them, smash their time, obliterate it. This was his rightful place.

These thoughts occurred faster than light, faster than time. He was in the curve now, and though his muscles seemed to have their own voice now, a voice which begged and pleaded for him to stop, he did not listen. His body yearned to crumble, to slump, to sit back and let the air’s cruel stiffness turn to soothing slowness, but he was fuelled by the fire of his thoughts now, the idea of the finish. Beyond the finish anything was possible, to rest, to slow, to give up, to allow the world to dictate its terms to you – but not here, not until then.

The road swept right now, and Craig continued to mash and to pound. Had he breath he would scream. His vision blurred, his eyes dry from the determination holding them to the wind. He consciously made himself blink and the distinct outline of his rolling tires restored itself.

Thirty-four miles an hour.

His thoughts grew jagged, random, uncontrolled. As if he were on the boundaries of sleep, of dreaming, with only the slightest threads holding him conscious. He thought of his father’s athleticism, the way he retained his defined muscles in even his later, damagingly self-indulgent years. He thought of his mother’s family and ancestry, mysteriously vague due to their abandonment of her when she married his father. He thought of Kelly, the American he had cheated on his wife with on a business trip to San Francisco several years ago. He thought of his wife, Janice, as he first knew her. Of Sam, the bully he had beaten up in his final year of secondary school. He thought of reading what someone had said about tire air pressures on a forum somewhere. Somehow the thoughts followed the rhythm of a pop song his mother had sung when he was a baby…

Then something caught his eye, scattered glintings on the road ahead. Then again, closer. Then again, as his front tire rolled over them.

For a few moments, or those split-seconds that had become the measurement of moments in his hyper-focused state, there was an almost insidious feeling that something was a little wrong. A slight imbalance in the attuned connection he had developed for his bike. The tire seemed to sink into the road, and just as Craig confirmed to himself something was definitely wrong, it was too late. The rim scrapped against the tarmac, sliding sideways suddenly. His concentrated forward propulsion split in all directions, his wheel sliding sideways – almost perverse – his right arm leaving the handlebars instinctually rising in front of him to halt the road from engulfing him. It happened so quickly that there was not even time for hope – he was crashing. His tire had blown, and he was going down.

The curve of the road that he had followed devoutly, fanatically, was gone. It was a discarded human trajectory, and now mother nature, with all its children; gravity, momentum, chaos, had formed a new route for Craig; directly forward, away from the bike lane, over the bank, and down the grassy decline.

He slid, rolled, and bumped. Connected to his bike now not through some psychic and physical power, but through the clipped pedal that was attached to his left cycling shoe (he had managed to clip out the right foot). He and the bike fell together, taking it in turns to lead, like manic dancers spinning away then back together in a weird parody of love. His body was too numb to feel pain at the jolts and jabs of the clatterings, as if it had become so singularly focused upon exerting speed it would take time and adjustment for it to experience something so mundane as pain once again. He could taste grass, dirt, failure, and blood all at once. Then it stopped, and a wave of nausea caught up with him, with the vengeance of a concluded pursuit.

Eyelids peeled open against the pain-induced wince, out of focus and disoriented. A girl danced, as the figure of a young man hunched over a bowl.

Maike leapt up from the plush couch at the sound. Hours of taut concern and helpless anticipation released at the abrasive tones of the apartment buzzer. Titus had his keys, and she was always mildly annoyed by his preference to be buzzed in rather than use them. Sometimes she even pretended not to notice, so that he would have to kick the door in, the way the youth who lived on the second floor would do, not having keys of his own, but on this occasion she ran to the intercom in an attempt to show how deeply invested she was in whatever it was that had kept him out so late.

It’s me, his voice called in the typical manner, broken-down and muffled by the poor speaker.

She held the button then opened the door, listening for the echo from the depths of the stairwell. The clumsily bashed bike, the slam of the apartment block’s heavy glass doors, the whoosh of the opening lift. She folded her arms in a state of suspense until the lift doors reopened in front of her, an awkward smile and relieved shake of the head offered by her boyfriend as he wheeled his bike through the passage towards her.

She held the door open for him and waited until he had fully entered before closing it.

What the fuck? she exclaimed, her Germanic roots emerging in the rhythm, if not the accent of how she said it.

She followed him to the living room where he hung up the bike and dropped himself onto a chair.

I just had the weirdest night I’ve had in a long time, Titus offered, speaking with the reflective slowness of a journal entry, combined with the bright enthusiasm of a story he was eager to tell.

Noticing the hashed scratches on the hand he used to rub his brow, Maike said, Are you alright? and knelt beside the chair, as if eye-level would help her understand.

I’m tired, starving, and kinda freaked-out. But yeah.

She took his scarred hand from him as if plucking it from an antique seller’s table and inspected it.

This doesn’t look alright.

Just a few scratches, Titus said, relishing the particularly masculine pride that comes from dismissing injury.

She leant towards him to exchange a kiss, tender yet formal, then frowned slightly as she pulled back.

You’ve been drinking?

Titus laughed gently.

Wait til you hear what happened.

You want food?

You saved me Chinese?

I wasn’t going to eat everything, Maike said, moving around the counter that separated their living room from their kitchen area.

Titus gazed around in the ensuing few moments to himself, during which Maike slid drawers and uncapped tubs. A peculiar sense of alienation trickling through him like the lively beginnings of a stream.

They had lived there for little over a year, enough time to fill it with objects of beauty and character. Enough to call this small slab of space, nestled among fifty other apartments like it, a home. Where ‘home’ was some expression of themselves, some indication of the world they might create, were they in charge of it. Where home was a canvas, upon which a collage of interests, tastes, and knowledge were arranged in such a way that any visitor would understand its inhabitants as much as architecture might reveal the soul of a nation, a time, an ideology.

They pleased him, these things. It pleased him to own them, to live amongst them. The Royal typewriter from the thirties; its elegant lines and connotations of classical, important creativity. The stack of carefully selected vintage vinyl next to the Audio-Technica turntable. A world of sounds from a time when it could inspire revolutions, loves, and controversy. The Telecaster upon its stand in the corner, beside a Fender Twin Reverb tube amp. It’s butterscotch finish and mapled fretboard worn.

Titus liked the man who owned such things. Who would own them but somebody who lived for the beauty and wonder of art? Who would place such objects so prominently, within such easy access, but somebody compelled to achieve greatness with their methods? Somebody who welled with ideas, passion, conviction, and artistry, so much so that they needed these things to keep them from burning so brightly they might burn him alive.

He gazed at them, these things he had claimed ownership of, and in this present moment; tired, hungry and waiting for his beautiful girlfriend to lovingly bring him food, he felt them ridiculous, and their presence almost shameful. He noticed the dust on the typewriter, tried to remember if the record player was even plugged-in anymore, if the guitar was still in tune. They were empty artefacts, he felt suddenly – and not even his, of some other person. His hands were not the ones that had worn that Telecaster’s fretboard.

When he turned away, it was the bike which caught his eye, a glimpse in his periphery that magnetized his focus. He looked at it upon the wall, and felt no more of that previous shame.

So? Maike called from the kitchen.

Huh?

What happened? she said, returning to the living room with the boxes of food on a tray. Napkin, chopsticks, and Titus’ beloved sweet chilli sauce beside them.

Titus inhaled long and deeply through his lips as he picked up the bamboo chopsticks.

Well… I fell off the path. The one on the way to the shopping centre.

Uh-huh, Maike said. I know that. Who was the girl?

Titus shovelled a soy sauce soaked dumpling into his mouth and made a shocked expression to satiate Maike’s curiosity until he had chewed enough to speak.

Kelly, and she – Wait, you’ve got to let me tell you from the start – so much shit happened.

Ok, Maike said through a sigh, grabbing a cushion to hug and curling her long, slender legs beneath her on the couch.

Titus took a quick bite of noodles before talking through them.

"So, I’m riding along, and I’m crashing before I know it. I must have fallen about ten feet. I was so lucky not to have broken my neck. I didn’t though-"

Obviously.

Titus took Maike’s interruption as opportunity for another bite.

So I fell, and I scratched my hands up, and also got this bruise on my leg.

Titus lifted his jeans to show Maike, causing her to wince and look at his face pityingly. And then this girl appears. So she asks if I’m alright, helps me up, and offers me her puncture kit. So I go over to where her bike is, and she gets all this stuff out. Bowl, water – so I can fix it-

I know how to fix a bike tire, Maike says.

Right… So that’s when I start to notice she’s a bit weird. Like… Titus pauses, only partly to eat, in order to find his words. Do you remember that Finnish girl at Mikel’s party a few months ago?

Ugh, Maike says, rolling her eyes, The one who kept drinking out of everyone’s cups before hiding under the table? Awful. She must have been on drugs.

No, Titus said, voice filtered through bean sprouts, I saw her again at Dan’s. She’s always like that. She spent the evening throwing his fruit out of the window. Wait- Bad example, Kelly wasn’t annoying like that… But… She seemed a little crazy. For instance, a few minutes after I start fixing my tire, she turns on some radio and starts dancing.

Maike raised an eyebrow.

What’s wrong with dancing?

I… It was just a little strange, right? We both fell off the bike path, we’ve talked for all of five minutes, and she just starts dancing like that? She was just so relaxed. Anyway, that goes on for a while, then this black guy falls.

Maike scowled at Titus.

Sorry, I shouldn’t describe him like that, I only noticed cause he was one of those lycra-guys, right? Helmet, spandex, fancy bike. He fell really bad. I thought he broke his neck. He had this really gross bleeding scar on his shoulder, and another on his leg.

Eesh.

Right, Titus nods, it was bad. And he was pissed off about something too, like, he was really annoyed that he fell off the path – like, more than you really would be. He was going pretty fast. Anyway, Kelly goes over to him, but he says he has his own kit, blah blah blah, but Kelly insists he comes over and uses the bowl of water. Turns out he’s some banker guy. Craig. Seemed nice once he relaxed a bit.

Then Nate fell and joined you, Maike said, through a sardonic half-smile. The one that Titus felt was most indicative of the truth behind the stereotype of the stand-offish German.

Uh… Yeah.

You do realize, Maike said with gentle humour, that you told me all of this on our chat. And that I saw your social media pics of all the bikes.

Right, Titus said, bashfully focusing on eating for a few more second, but I didn’t say how weird it got.

I figured. Since that’s when you stopped messaging me, or posting anything.

Titus put down the chopsticks, sucked down a few large gulps of water, and jumped to his feet.

So here’s what happened, he said, hands free now to gesture as he paced slightly in the centre of the room, as if giving a talk, Nate actually had a carrier bag full of beer – he’s Scottish.

Such a stereotype, Maike grinned.

Right? Titus laughed. But he was cool. And quite funny. He made that joke himself – about the stereotype. No- Wait… First I climbed back up the bank to see what made all of us fall – turns out it was tacks.

Really?

Yeah. I thought it was just glass when I fell but… Craig reckoned it must have been kids pulling a prank. Nate got pretty pissed, he thought it was ‘wanky car drivers’

Maike plucked a dumpling from the tray loosely between her fingers and bit into it. It sounds like you turned into a real close gang of friends.

Nate was pretty generous with beers, and Craig was taking ages fixing his puncture. Anyway, Kelly starts making a fire. Turns out she’s riding across country. Scotland then back again. Since it was dark she wanted to set up camp there. So we all helped out.

Titus drifted away.

And then? Maike encouraged.

Then we started talking, Titus said, letting the words hang in the air, a semi-confused look on his face as he stood at one end of the living room.

Maike waited for something else before donning her own look of confusion.

Weren’t you already talking?

Titus looked away, accidentally scanning the bike again, and lingering upon it.

Not like this… It was… Like…

Titus began to pace again, his hands animated, Maike’s eyes tracking him like a tethered rope. I don’t really know how to explain it.

After a moment’s consideration, Maike said, What did you talk about?

It started off not too strange, Titus said slowly. We talked about ourselves, about bikes, about how nice the scenery was. Then Nate started getting a little worked up – he’s that type. We were talking about prejudice, judging people, something like that, and Nate just says ‘There’s only one divide in this world, then scrapes a hand across the grass – as if he and Kelly were one side and me and Craig on the other."

What did he mean by that?

Titus shrugged. North-south? Kelly had some accent. Mancunian, I guess. So I start trying to calm things down, say everyone’s got their shit to deal with. Craig talks about he grew up poor, worked hard to get what he’s got. Nate goes crazy, talking about how the whole thing is ‘full of shite’ and how he’d like to burn the whole thing down-

Sounds like the most boring conversation ever had, Maike said, with caustic disparagement.

But then... Kelly, Titus continued, ignoring her, but trailing off regardless.

Kelly what?

One of us -  I can’t remember who – asks her what she thinks. What she believes in, Titus’ voice faded a little, as if his speech was receding to mere thought. His head raised a little, as if he could better hear the memory. He caught glimpse of the anticipation in Maike’s face, and it compelled him to continue. She says, ‘I believe in the bike – and only the bike.’

This time Maike was the one who glanced towards the bike which hung on the wall, as if double-checking what a bike actually was.

She starts talking about how the bike is the last chance for humanity, Titus goes on, for nature. About how in the future there will be ‘those that ride, and those who don’t.’ How it’ll return us to our roots, make us animals again.

Maike raised her eyebrows above an amused grin, though Titus was staring too intensely into the distance to notice.

I see what you mean about crazy, now, she offered.

Yeah, Titus said slowly, as if it were his first word after waking up. Except, it didn’t sound that crazy when she said it.

Maike finally noticed the change in Titus’ expression, and allowed her smile to fade.

Well, she said, her tone now that of sympathy, I sort of understand. I mean, bikes are great for the environment.

No, Titus said, it was more than that. More powerful. Like some kind of spiritual thing… Almost. It was like some great passage from a book, or one of those speeches. I don’t know…

What did you say? Maike asked, for lack of another question.

Nothing, Titus said, looking at her directly again. None of us did. For about fifteen, twenty minutes.

Maike did not speak for a few moments, as if testing the prospect of unanswered statements herself. Titus sat down and returned finally to his eating. He attacked his food with vigour, made no effort to disguise the hard chew, the ravenous hunger, until he perhaps thought he was overdoing it, making it too obvious that he was reserved about saying what happened next.

Is that it?

What?

The end of your grand evening?

Titus swigged a few gulps of water and put some effort into making his next words appear dismissive.

Then she asked all of us to join her. Then we all went our separate ways – and here I am.

Mm-hmm.

Titus grabbed the tray and brought it back to the kitchen, returning to the living room and going straight to the desktop computer – pretending he didn’t notice Maike watch him keenly.

Ok, Maike said, in the tone of an announcement. What is it?

Titus glanced at her briefly from the loading screen.

Huh?

What are you not telling me?

Titus turned his seat to face her this time, keeping his faux-ignorance going for all of three seconds before breaking. He smiled easily, feeling like he was shedding some actor’s costume. He looked from his beautiful girlfriend to her adorned desk in the other corner of the room, its stacked lenses and equipment the same as it always was.

Why don’t we? he said.

Why don’t we what?

Titus stood up and walked, fingers ploughing his hay-coloured locks, shoulders rounded with internal focus.

Why don’t we go with her?

Excuse me? Maike said, almost as if taking offence.

"We could film her – you could film her."

Titus... Maike groaned.

I’m not bringing that up again, he said, interrupting his thought to look at her. This is nothing to do with what we argued about. This is just a really, really fantastic opportunity.

For what? Maike laughed, with the typical humour she used for Titus’ spontaneous ideas. A humour of fascinated excitement at his ability to latch onto a passion with such fervour, and a humour that served as counterpoint and warning against the mundane responsibilities and all-consuming failures they often became.

We could ride with her, Titus said, with the slow, pragmatic certainty of a plan already concocted. Film her. Document her journey.

What for? Maike repeated.

Cycling’s in vogue now. Think about it: A young woman riding across the country. It’s about cycling – about a female cyclist, no less. About Britain. Adventure. Culture.

Ugh.

Titus stepped towards Maike, around the coffee table, and kneeling in front of her on the couch, his hand on her knee, eyes up imploringly.

Worst comes to worst, it’s a three-minute online video the agency could use. Or we just sell the footage. But I really think this could be something great. It’s the project you need. You’re always saying you’re waiting for the right subject or person. Well here it is.

Maike buried her head in her hands, long, straight, chestnut-coloured strands of hair falling in front of her like a shield.

It just seems so boring. Bikes on the road, some random girl who’s riding for no reason.

If there’s any night like tonight it’ll be worth it.

You mean if a bunch of random people all crash in the same spot? It’s not likely, is it, Titus?

We could always put some tacks on the road ourselves, Titus said, only semi-jokingly. Manipulate things – make them a bit more interesting if they’re not.

Maike laughed and got up, extricating herself from Titus’ begging grip and moving towards the kitchen.

I’m making tea, she said, do you want some?

No thanks, Titus said, tracing her steps, but seriously, this girl is pretty fucking fascinating.

From crazy to fascinating. Hindsight is great.

I just wish you could talk to her a bit, see what I mean. You’d get it.

Wow, Maike said, clicking the kettle on, she’s certainly cast a spell on you.

She cast a spell on everyone – the rich guy, the human brewery.

Let me guess, Maike said, turning around and leaning back on the counter, she’s pretty?

Photogenic, Titus grinned.

Maike shot Titus a half-smile and turned to fetch the teabags.

So you want us to drop everything and just ride across the country. Camp in the woods. To film some strange girl who’s obsessed with bicycles.

Sounds even better when you say it. I can take the time off, the agency is giving us a free reign these days. They’ll love this idea more than anyone.

And it’s not like I have anything else going on, Maike said quickly, though it clattered through the conversation like a battering ram.

Titus paused before speaking. I thought you didn’t want to go there?

Maike turned to him and pursed her lips in a gesture of surrender.

What about the brewery you’re planning to open with Dean? she began, more seriousness in her voice now. Or the fountain pen you just funded online? The snowboarding holiday we were planning? Or your music that you want to focus on? Or the magazine articles you wanted to write?

It’s all there still, Titus insisted, and it’ll be there when we’re done. Look, just meet her. She’s going to be in Oxford tomorrow at some bike shop event. Vector, I think it was called. Meet her, see what you think. We can back out any time you like. It’s a few days, a week. There’s no stakes here. I’m just saying it’s really worth giving a chance.

Maike clutched her mug, sipped through a smile, eyes focused on Titus, then walked past him into the living room. She placed the mug at her desk, and sat down at it and started inspecting a camera part.

What are you doing? Titus asked, hope fluttering cautiously in his breast.

I can’t go without my lenses, can I?

The shed his destination. Barely a shed, a dog kennel compared to the gigantic yard he had back in Airdrie. Rickety and weather-beaten, restrictive and vulnerable. A physical, architectural manifestation of his fall from grace, of his current predicament.

Still, it was better than what most of these Southern fuckers up with. Two to a box room, windows next to a bus station, paper-thin walls and their sense of self-importance their only barrier against the noise of tactless schoolkids and wanky London accents.

For what?

To live in a bag of shite that’s bigger than all the others around the country. To slightly increase the odds you’ll meet someone who isn’t an arse – and increase them massively that you will.

He’d never understand, and he was proud of it. Prouder still because he was actually here, and his disdain couldn’t be dismissed so easily.

In the unlit alleyway the bike rolled uncomfortably. Stiff, thin, carbon rims – eighty quid each if he found someone who wasn’t suspicious – reacting to every cracked tile and disused gutter channel. Too dark to see, guided by the texture of the fence’s wood grain, the faint lights beyond the curtains, he tossed the bike over the broken gate – its landing on his nan’s rose bushes quieter than the air-splitting scrape of gate on cement. He skipped over himself, picking it back up and guiding it into the thin space between shed and fence. Tomorrow he’d take it apart, spray it, begin the machinations and manipulations of laundering it.

Except tomorrow I might not be here.

The thought emerged like a promise he had forgotten, quickly and forcefully. He swept it aside immediately.

Up weed-gilded steps, through the hanging net curtain of the kitchen’s back door, then into the living room made ominous by the flickering light of the TV – a silent thunderstorm. He turned on the floor lamp.

Oh! Who is it?

"Who do you think,